


In Dreams

by gracerene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Community: daily_deviant, Daily Deviant's Banging Birthday Fest 2020, Dream Sex, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, First Time, Longing, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24780688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/pseuds/gracerene
Summary: Sirius always finds him in his dreams.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 161
Collections: Daily Deviant





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



> Written for 2020 [Daily Deviant Banging Birthday Fest](https://daily-deviant.dreamwidth.org/24080.html).
> 
> Thank you so much to the lovely writcraft for the inspiring scenario. I'm not sure this is exactly what you were thinking when you left this prompt, but I hope you enjoy it just the same! Much love to nerdherderette for their brilliant feedback, and to the mods for running this fest!

It's six months after the end of the war, and Harry lives for his dreams.

Not the aspirational kind with some shiny future vision of the post-Voldemort world, but the ones that come to him when he shuts his eyes at the end of a long day. The daytime finds him tired, leeched of strength and desire, the world colourless in the aftermath of all he's lost, all he's given. He's rarely alone, even though it often feels that way—he's not the only one grieving, not the only one doing their best to cope and muddle through.

It's different in his vivid dreamworld. He's weightless, his cares left behind on his pillow, and he's never, ever lonely.

Sirius always finds him in his dreams.

One might say it's become an obsession, an addiction, but can anyone really be _addicted_ to sleep? If anybody's earned their rest, it's him. His friends send him off to bed with understanding smiles—he has years' worth of sleep to catch up on, after all. And maybe he doesn't wake up as refreshed as he thinks he should. Maybe his dreams feel so impossibly real, rife with details even Harry's imagination shouldn't be able to conjure, that Harry sometimes wonders if they're dreams at all.

Harry knows that's merely wishful thinking. A longing for the impossible.

Sirius is gone. Harry's dreams are an unattainable fantasy, forever out of reach.

It doesn't stop Harry from chasing after them, thinking about sleep every moment that he's awake. He longs for evening, for the time when he can lay his head down and open himself up to be found by Sirius once more.

"Hello, Harry," Sirius says, his voice as rich and melodious as it was in life. (And yet, Harry can't seem to recall Sirius's precise timbre when he's awake, the memories worn thin and faded with overuse.)

Harry grins, feeling almost carefree as he takes Sirius in: his mischievous smile and glittering eyes, the long lines of his body packed with lean muscle hidden beneath his clothes. Harry's been dreaming of Sirius every night since the end of the war, building on a relationship cut far too short. Things have changed in those six months, and tonight he doesn't hesitate before throwing himself into Sirius's arms and tilting his head up for a kiss.

It didn't start off like this, but like most things, it evolved.

Every night Harry would pour his heart out, telling Sirius the things he never got to tell him in life, secrets he can't bear to tell his grieving friends (Is it possible to house part of Voldemort's soul for nearly two decades and not be changed for the worse? Why did he get to come back from the dead when so many others didn't?) and Sirius would comfort him. First with words, then with hugs and kisses. Innocent, until it wasn't. Until Harry burned with wanting. 

These are just dreams, anyway. Here, there are no rules.

Sirius protested at first, weakly, as if Harry couldn't even conjure up a fantasy-Sirius that would fuck him without guilt. But this was all in Harry's mind, his own creation, so of course Sirius gave in. He kissed Harry like he was the only person in his world (wasn't he?), and Harry fell apart beneath his tongue.

The only person Harry's ever had sex with is Ginny, and even then it was only a few times, rushed and desperate and distracted. Harry had passing thoughts about blokes over the years, but nothing he'd ever latched onto, never daring to follow the threads of his imagination to their inevitable sticky end. He's vaguely aware of the kinds of things men do together, has glossed them over with a vague sense of discomfort—how could it possibly be pleasurable to stick _anything_ up one's bum? Harry hasn't ever been tempted, hasn't ever wondered.

Sirius makes him curious.

Sirius, with his long fingers and prominent knuckle bones, the backs of his hands tattooed and scarred, dangerous, deadly. And yet the Sirius of his dreams touches Harry so gently, a reverent glide of callused fingertips rasping over Harry's bare skin that leaves goosebumps in its wake. Harry may be relatively inexperienced, but it's clear Sirius isn't. He knows just where to touch Harry to make him keen and shake, knows all about erogenous zones Harry didn't even know he had.

(How? How does he know? If this Sirius is Harry's creation, how does he know things Harry doesn't? Is Harry's subconscious truly so vast?)

They're naked. On Harry's bed—which was Sirius's bed, twice over, where he slept as a boy, and (briefly) as a teen, and (even more briefly) as an adult. And now it's Harry's, and he sleeps here each night in sheets he hasn't changed since Sirius's death (he doubts Kreacher has either), pretending he can still smell him, squeezing his eyes shut and praying for sleep so that Sirius can find him.

And Sirius is here now, which means Harry must be asleep, but it doesn't feel like it, not at all. Harry's not sure if he's ever felt more awake, more alive, than right at this moment, with Sirius's fingers skating down his sides, his dark eyes looking down at Harry with so much wonder (like _Harry's_ the one who's the beautiful, unattainable illusion) that Harry's eyes sting and his throat grows tight. It hurts, this joy, a simple pleasure if not for the fact that it's with a man who no longer exists. It makes waking a chore, something to be borne until he can escape into dreamland once more. This, _here_ , is where Harry feels like he belongs.

"What do you want, Harry?" Sirius asks. Harry blinks up at him, mesmerised by his lips, the fullness of them, the shallow dip of his cupid's bow. He loves the way they form words. Loves most the way they look while saying his name.

"I—" Harry doesn't know what he wants, other than everything. Other than Sirius alive and well. For this to be real. For Harry to have this, always. But that's not what Sirius is asking, and Harry's want is too great to distill it into a single request.

Sirius's gaze softens (how is it possible, when his gaze is already well-worn cashmere against Harry's skin?) and his thumbs rub tiny, tempting circles against Harry's hips. 

"I've got you," he says, so low Harry isn't sure he didn't imagine it. (Of course he did. He's imagining all of this.) "I'm going to try something new. I think you'll like it. Let me know if you don't."

Harry wants to say: _Of course I'll like it. I like everything with you, everything you do._ But he nods instead. Sirius ducks his head, presses a kiss to Harry's breast bone that he feels right against his beating heart. Harry's legs are already spread wide around Sirius, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach, and he watches with breathless anticipation as Sirius's fingers slide down.

Harry clenches and Sirius soothes, with gentle sounds and tender presses of lube-wet fingertips. Sirius circles, so easy, so patient (he wasn't this patient in life, was he?) waiting for the seemingly inevitable moment when Harry opens for him, a bud unfurling. It's unconscious and instinctive; Harry's body more knowledgeable than his mind in this. Harry's brain hasn't been able to reconcile this act with pleasure, but his body knows better.

A slow slide in, inexorable, unfathomable. Pressure and not-quite-pain and almost-pleasure that's entirely out of the realm of Harry's experiences. Is this what he imagined it would feel like? _Did_ he ever imagine what it would feel like? He didn't think so, had shied away from the details, but here it is, bright in his mind like the gleam on a freshly-made Snitch. 

This is the truest thing he's felt in months.

More fingers join the first (Two? Three? How can something be so sharp yet so hazy all at once?) as the not-quite-pain ebbs and flows, spiking before easing into a simmering ache that underscores the growing pleasure. It amplifies it, somehow—makes the pleasure deeper, richer, gives it depth and perspective, creates different notes to form a melody that sings through Harry's body as Sirius plucks his strings.

He can come like this. He _will_ come like this if Sirius doesn't stop. Harry doesn't want him to stop; he wants Sirius to do this forever, to continue thrusting his fingers and inflaming every last one of Harry's nerves. It's more than just the raw, primal sensations that are driving him wild—it's the tender look in Sirius's eyes as he gazes down at Harry, the mess of feelings in Harry's chest, ever-increasing like they've been hit with an Expanding Charm. It all leads to a whole that's greater than the sum of its parts, a bliss that transcends the limits of Harry's physical form.

It grows. Sirius's fingers crook and stroke, and Harry moans, writhes, fists his hands in the bedsheets (Sirius's bedsheets). Sirius's eyes gleam with a deep, possessive want, a hungry yearning, and Harry's body hits its peak.

Harry comes, his cock flushed red and twitching as he spurts untouched all over his stomach and chest, translucent streaks like raised scars against his skin. Sirius's fingers still, a thick, heavy weight inside Harry. They move, as if to leave him, and Harry clenches down, his legs wrapping around Sirius, encouraging him to stay. He feels like Sirius is grounding him here, his fingers tethering Harry to dreamland. If they slip out, so will Harry, back to reality.

He isn't ready to go back.

He's never ready to go back.

Understanding cracks through Sirius's blissed-out expression, painful little fissures, as if this unreal-Sirius feels Harry's same sense of longing. As if he doesn't want Harry to leave _him_ , either.

(Of course he feels the same. He's a part of Harry, after all, his very own creation, borne of his memory and desire.)

Sirius leans down and kisses Harry, a slow, coaxing thing that gradually builds heat. If you'd asked Harry before, how Sirius would kiss, he wouldn't have thought it'd be like this, so worshipful and sweet. If you'd asked him before, how he thought Sirius would taste, he'd say like Firewhisky and cigars, but this Sirius tastes faintly of a Peppermint Tooth-Cleaning Charm, as if he'd cast the spell in anticipation of Harry's arrival.

(Harry never knew he had such an imagination, so comprehensive and perceptive, capable of including details Harry hadn't realised he'd even notice.)

"I'll miss you," Sirius says, and Harry clings harder, all arms and legs and desperate kisses.

"Time to go," Sirius says, and Harry shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut in denial.

"Until tomorrow," Sirius whispers, looking guilty and resigned and hopeful all at once, and Harry nods vigorously, already counting down the hours, the minutes, until his next sleep.

Sirius's fingers slide out of Harry's body and Harry's body slides into wakefulness. His bedsheets (Sirius's bedsheets) are tangled around his legs, his chest streaked with come, the way it had been in his dream.

Harry lies in darkness, staring up at the ceiling decorated with faded Muggle stars that Harry thinks must have glowed in the dark when Sirius first stuck them up there. His lips tingle with the dreamy memory of Sirius's lips. His arsehole aches, and when he reaches down to run his fingers along the rim, Harry imagines it feels hot and swollen to his touch. 

(Is it merely his imagination?)

His arse isn't the only thing that aches. His chest is tight and painful, his heart a throbbing bruise. Harry's limbs are heavy, his muscles sore and eyes dry and mind fuzzy. He feels like he hasn't slept at all, despite the fact that the grandfather clock in the study down the hall has just begun to chime, seven bells to let him know he's been down for ten hours.

He should probably get up. He's not entirely sure what day it is (Saturday? Sunday? He's pretty certain it's the weekend) but he's got vague recollections of having morning plans. Helping Ginny practice for her upcoming Harpies' tryout, or going to the Burrow for breakfast, or maybe cleaning out Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione. Whatever he's supposed to be doing, he needs to get up. It won't do to have his friends catch him lingering in bed too long or too often. They'll begin to ask questions. Have concerns.

Harry doesn't need any of that.

He already knows what he needs.

Harry looks down at his watch.

Only fourteen more hours until he gets it.

**Author's Note:**

> [Kudos ♥] and [Comments] are fabulous! I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://gracerene09.tumblr.com/)!


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